


Red Velvet and Reciprocity

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Backstory, Cake, Drugs, Friendship, Gen, Scotland Yard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally finds that working with Sherlock Holmes leads to all kinds of unexpected consequences, not the least of which include sudden and unexplained visits from a mysterious blackberry-addicted MI6 agent. Five times Anthea shows up at Sally’s work, and one time they meet off the clock. </p>
<p>Inspired by the wonderful fic ‘If on a Winter’s Day a Detective’ by frozen delight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Velvet and Reciprocity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If on a Winter's Day a Detective…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996146) by [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight). 



> Thanks must go to **frozen delight** , both for writing the fic that inspired this one and for doing a wonderful job as beta (all remaining mistakes are my own). If you haven't read 'If on a Winter's Day' already I recommend you go and do so, it's both funny and insightful and her Anthea is magnificent.

Sally watches as the printer churns out sheets of paper, trying to resist the urge to gnaw at her lip in frustration. _Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up._

It’s been a hell of a night. There have been two murders in as many days and, if their psych expert is to be believed, there’s a third pending unless they somehow get ahead of the bastard. She’s spent the night combing through past case files and witness reports, looking for anything that might throw some light on the business. She checks her watch as the printer makes a complaining sound and belches out the last sheet. Christ, she should have been briefing Lestrade ten minutes ago. Snatching up her print outs she walks to Lestrade’s office as quickly as she can without risking breaking an ankle.

To her surprise the office doors are closed, blinds down. A woman in a business suit stands nonchalantly in front of the door, apparently absorbed in her phone.

“Excuse me,” Sally says.

The woman looks up, blinking as if surprised to see anyone there. “Oh hello,” she says. “You must be Sergeant Donovan.”

“Yeah,” says Sally. “If I could just get past….”

The woman doesn’t move. “I’m afraid Inspector Lestrade is in a meeting.”

Sally stares at her. Who is this woman? 

“Look, it’s pretty important. If you could just get out of the way…”

“If it’s about the Pullwell case,” the woman says, “your murderer was arrested approximately eleven minutes ago.”

Sally feels the stack of paper shift, threatening to slip out of her grip. She bends down to place it carefully on the floor, before straightening to stare at the woman.

“What?”

“Sherlock Holmes discovered Vincent Carter in the act of strangling his most recent victim and performed a citizen’s arrest.”

Sally opens her mouth to deliver her rather dubious opinion of citizen’s arrests but the woman cuts across her.

“He has since been taken into custody by a –” The woman pauses, glancing at something on her phone. “Constable Blackman. He has already confessed.”

Sally frowns, taking this information in. “Sherlock Holmes?” She says. The name is familiar, an association prodding teasingly at the edge of her memory. And then she realises.

“Oh God,” she says. “Not that mad junkie from the first murder scene? The one who kept following the boss around and babbling about cigarette ash?”

The woman’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. “Just so,” she says.

_A likely bloody tale_ , Sally thinks. “I still need a word with my boss.”

The woman sighs, and opens her purse, pulling out an ID to show Sally. 

“I’m afraid I have my orders. DI Lestrade is not to be disturbed.”

A glance is enough to tell Sally that not only does this woman outrank her by far, but she might be dangerous to piss off. She double-checks the photo and the name (Anthea Woodhouse) and then reluctantly nods. 

“Fine,” she says, rather gracelessly, and picking up her paper, she turns to go.

“Sergeant Donovan,” the woman says. 

Sally looks back. The woman – Anthea – has her head tilted to one side, cool green eyes looking at Sally thoughtfully.

“They’ll be another hour at least,” Anthea says. She walks towards Sally, low heels clicking decisively on the hard floor. “I’m rather hungry.”

“Oh?” says Sally, in a tone meant to imply she doesn’t know what that has to do with her.

“I don’t suppose you’ve eaten today either.” 

“I’m all right.” 

Naturally her stomach chooses that moment to growl insistently. The corners of Anthea’s mouth quirk upward, almost imperceptibly. “Accompany me, would you?”

 

They head round the corner to one of those bakeries that specialise in cup cakes piled high with icing, and coffee in tiny china cups. It’s not really Sally’s scene. She prefers her coffee strong and in mugs that bear no resemblance at all to a thimble and she never really eats sweet food (unless you count occasionally breaking out the emergency mars bar all coppers keep on them for desperate circumstances – like if they get held up by a psycho for days without food, or the canteen decides to serve stroganoff again.)

Still, she has to admit, the place smells nice, a waft of sugar and vanilla scented air meeting them as they approach. It actually doesn’t look like the place ought to be open at this hour, but after a tap at the window from Anthea, the beaming owner rushes over to let them in.

“Ah, my most faithful customer! And what can I get for you lovely ladies today?”

“A cappuccino and a black coffee please.” Anthea casts an evaluating look over Sally. “A large black coffee for Sergeant Donovan. And two of your red velvet cakes, please.”

Sally blinks. The woman is ordering for her. Cheek.

“Actually, I’ll have the chocolate cake,” she says loudly. Anthea only smiles at her and goes to find a table.

As soon as they are seated, Anthea pulls out her phone and begins tapping away at it. Ordinarily Sally would consider that sort of behaviour rude, but it’s six in the morning and Sally hasn’t seen her bed for over thirty hours – actually, it’s a bit of a relief not to be obliged to make conversation. She spies a newspaper sitting in a rack, and picks it up, leafing through it.

The proprietor arrives with their coffee and cake. The coffee is, pleasingly, as strong as Sally likes it. The cake is too sweet. The chocolatey thickness coats the roof of Sally’s mouth, making her grimace.

Anthea takes a delicate sip of her coffee, shoots Sally a brief piercing glance and then, in a swift motion, leans across the table to switch their plates.

“Hey!” says Sally.

“I like chocolate,” says Anthea, and takes a deliberate bite of Sally’s cake. Sally scowls but picks at a piece of the red velvet.

Damn the woman. It is delicious.

***

“We’ll take him from here,” the nurse says, with a sympathetic smile to Sally. She attempts to pull the wilting man off of Sally’s neck, to which he seems to have become rather tenaciously attached.

“Sergeant Donovan!” Sherlock Holmes says, when the nurse finally manages to get him upright. He stares as if he’s surprised to see her, as if she hasn’t just hauled him half a bloody mile across the hospital car park to get here.

“All right, Sir, if you’ll just come with me…..” the nurse says, but Sherlock struggles out of her grip, long arms swinging through the air like propeller blades.

“This woman,” he announces, gesturing at Sally, “couldn’t… deduce… oh.” 

Sherlock pitches forward, grabbing at Sally’s shoulder again. He frowns confusedly at the ground, and opens his mouth as if to ask a question. Instead he vomits prolifically, all over Sally’s feet. 

“Oh dear,” the nurse says, with what in Sally’s view is an unnecessarily sunny tone of voice. “I think we need to go and have a sit down, don’t we?”

“Check his coat pocket,” Sally calls after the nurse, as the later leads the suddenly docile man away. “Apparently there’s list of … substances he might have taken.”

The nurse looks rather surprised but nods at her.

 

Sally is in a rather undignified position when the door to the ladies’ swings open. The sinks are set too high for her to comfortably wash her feet, which means she has to sit in one basin and wash her feet in the other, legs crooked at such an angle that she is in danger of giving herself a black eye with her own kneecap. To her credit, Anthea doesn’t comment on the sight, merely goes into one of the toilet cubicles and comes back with a handful of tissues. Sally nods her thanks, and hops down from the sink. She looks despairingly at her shoes. Being dunked in soapy water hasn’t done them any good. Instead the glue attaching the base to the sole seems to have dissolved, faux leather shrinking and peeling back.

“Here,” Anthea roots in her bag and pulls out a pair of running shoes. “I keep them for days when I have to do legwork. We should be the same size.”

“Thanks,” says Sally grimly, remembering the cake. “But these will do.”

She sticks her feet into the shoes, wincing at the clammy sensation on her feet. She swears she can still smell sick under the peachy scent of the soap.

Anthea shrugs, shoving the shoes back in her bag, and pulls out her phone.

“You were the one who brought Sherlock Holmes into the hospital, is that correct?”

“Yep.” 

“On admittance you intimated your belief that he was suffering a cocaine overdose.”

Sally gives her a sharp glance. “Not sure I should be passing on his medical details. Isn’t that stuff supposed to be private?”

“Your loyalty to your colleague is commendable,” Anthea says. “But in this case unwise. I need to know the precise circumstances of his admission.”

“He’s not my colleague,” Sally snaps. “He just works for my boss sometimes.”

“Sergeant Donovan,” Anthea says. “This is a matter of national security.”

Sally breathes out through her nose heavily. She doesn’t know why she’s protecting the man, really. 

“Fine,” she says. “Yeah. He’d definitely taken something. I found lines of powder on the kitchen table. He told me it was for the case.”

“Case?” says Anthea.

“There’s been a couple of deaths – heart attacks, ODs. All junk– uh, recreational drug users. Holmes thought there was something wrong with the supply. We’d sent a sample off to the lab to find out what it was, but according to Holmes they weren’t going to process it quickly enough.”

“So he tested it on himself.”

“That’s the story,” Sally says.

“You think he was lying?”

Sally shrugs. “Like I said,” she says shortly. “Not my colleague. Not my business.”

She pushes past Anthea to open the bathroom door. Anthea follows her. She’s already typing rapidly on her blackberry, and Sally isn’t even sure she’s aware of her presence anymore. She’s a little impressed by the woman’s ability to walk and text so efficiently.

Sally herself isn’t doing so great herself with the walking thing. At every step water oozes unpleasantly between her toes, and the heel of her shoe is peeling further away from the sole, flapping with every step. 

_God damn Sherlock Holmes_ , Sally thinks. 

It’s not the shoes she’s angry about, not really. Getting vomited on is one of the regularly occurring side-effects of working for the Metropolitan Police, and not even the most unpleasant one. She isn’t even angry that she’s wasted an evening she could have spent finishing up her paperwork with a nice cuppa at her side, ferrying an overgrown public schoolboy with a drug habit to A&E. 

No. She’d seen the crumpled bag in Holmes’ bin, and it looked suspiciously like the ones they use to bag evidence. Sally’s stomach tightens. She was the one who showed Holmes the evidence locker. She’d even left him alone in there because ‘he needed to go to his mind palace’ whatever the hell that meant.

If it got out that she’d let a civilian swipe seized drugs to get high, she’d be on traffic duty for the rest of her career. 

That selfish, careless, inconsiderate _arsehole._

She looks sideways and realises Anthea has finished texting and is looking at her curiously.

“You dislike him,” she states. 

Sally sniffs. “I just don’t think he ought to be working with the police.”

“Because he’s an addict?”

“Because he isn’t –” Sally begins, and then stops, taking a deep breath. “Look. I’ve worked outreach, I did my time on the streets. I _know_ addicts. Some of them have stories that’d break your heart. People who come from really bad backgrounds, poverty, abuse… stuff you couldn’t even imagine. But Sherlock Holmes – anyone can see he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’s smart, educated – he’s just decided that reality is too _boring_ for him.”

“So he’s not one of the deserving addicted,” Anthea says, with a slight drawl. “Does that negate his talent?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Sally says. “It does. Police work isn’t just about brains, it’s about loyalty. You can’t do the job we do without being sure the people around you have your back. And Holmes - he’d throw us all under a bus if he decided it was entertaining.”

Anthea sighs, and then takes out her phone again. “No one will enquire into the provenance of the drugs.”  
“What?”  
“The cocaine that you failed to notice him steal. No awkward questions will be asked.”  
“And you can be sure of that, can you?”  
Anthea turns to look at Sally, eyebrows raised, and Sally suddenly feels quite certain that Anthea can make sure of that, and many other things besides.

“You know,” Anthea says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were promoted fairly soon.”

“What the – are you trying to bribe me?” 

Anthea’s eyes widen as if the idea was completely astonishing. “Of course not. You’re a competent police officer, I’m sure you’ll succeed on your own merits. But it’s good to know any little indiscretions Sherlock Holmes should happen to involve you in won’t impede your career. Isn’t it?” 

“Because you’ll be smoothing away all his mistakes,” Sally says, slowly.

Anthea smiles. “Precisely.”

“Because he’s _that_ important to national security,” Sally says.

“Yes.”

Sally snorts. “Come off it. Who is it? His mum? His dad?”

This time it’s Anthea’s turn to blink. “I don’t – ”

“Oh, come on, it’s obvious. Got friends in high places, hasn’t he?”

Anthea turns her head sharply to look at her. “What exactly makes you think that?”

Sally shrugs. “If my mum could send out MI6 to make sure my sister was still sober, she would.”

Anthea is quiet for a moment, expression thoughtful. They have reached the reception, where they both stop momentarily, looking at one another. Unfortunately, Sally’s shoes are not up to the change in pace – the sole slides forward a little, detaching completely from the heel, which twists under Sally, almost making her fall. She swears and kicks the ruined shoe off.

“It’s all right,” she says, as Anthea begins rummaging in her bag. But Anthea doesn’t offer her the shoes again – instead she hands Sally a card. It bears the name _Alessandro Occhipinti_ and an address. 

“He makes all my shoes,” Anthea says, and Sally’s eyes travel down to Anthea’s immaculately shod feet. “Mention my name. He’ll give you a discount.” Anthea’s phone buzzes, and she glances at it. “Your taxi is here.”

“I didn’t order…” 

Anthea smiles at her.

“Right. Fine. Thank you,” Sally says, brusquely, and slips the card in her pocket. She can feel Anthea watching her as she makes her way, barefoot, out of the door and into the waiting car.

 

***

The crime scene is a mess of shattered glass, dark blood staining the floor. Phillip is kneeling by the body, carefully picking at the wound on the dead man’s chest. Not suited up yet, Sally stands in the doorway, behind the tape, trying to get a sense of the scene.

The shot had to come from the other building. There are puncture holes in two sets of windows, in that building and this. Sally has never seen a shot so precise from that distance before. A professional job, has to be. A hit? Or someone with professional weaponry training?

“Sergeant Donovan?” The voice cuts through Sally’s thoughts, distracting her. Sherlock Holmes’ guardian angel is striding towards her, all high heels and brittle smile. She pauses a few feet away to sweep her eyes over Sally from head to toe. Her smile broadens just a little, a dimple appearing in her cheek. It looks almost like it could be genuine.

“You _did_ go to see Alessandro.”

“Oh.” Sally looks down at her shoes and suddenly feels a little self conscious. 

As a matter of fact Sally had been back to see Alessandro a few times since she’d last seen Anthea. A small, heavily accented man with enormous eyebrows, he’d greeted her warmly once she’d mentioned who sent her and delivered a most enthusiastic appraisal of her high arches and the musculature of her calves. The shoes he made were nothing short of miraculous – even the highest heels felt almost like little pillows attached to her feet: luxuriously comfortable, and easy to move in. She’d never successfully managed to chase down a suspect in stilettos before now.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks for recommending him.”

“Not at all,” Anthea says, and moves to stand by Sally’s side, looking with dispassionate eyes over the crime scene.

“Good shot,” she remarks.

“Yeah,” Sally says. “Too good. You don’t get many people with that kind of aim in London. I was thinking they could be ex-police maybe, ex-military. We’ll have to see what ballistics shows… if it looks like a police or army issue weapon then…..”

Anthea makes a faint noise in the back of her throat, as if disagreeing. Sally looks at her suspiciously.

“I’m afraid my instructions are to take this case out of your hands, Sergeant. Order from the Home Office. If you’ll ask forensics to finish their report, we’ll take it from there. I’m sure you and your colleagues have plenty of other cases demanding your attention.”

“Oh,” Sally says. “But – “

She meets Anthea’s eyes. Her expression is implacable.

“Well,” Sally says, dropping her shoulders in acceptance. “Make sure you catch the bastard.”

“We’ll do our best,” Anthea says. She looks down at the body for a moment, lower lip curling slightly. “Though by all accounts, Jefferson Hope was not a great loss to the world.”  
Sally prickles a little at that. “He was a human being.”

Anthea looks Sally full in the eyes. “True,” she says, in a tone which implies that that fact does not carry an awful lot of weight with her.

Sally thinks over what she knows about the case. Why would MI6 want it? What could Hope have done to get himself on their radar? Other than take a pop at Holmes, of course. Surely that couldn’t be enough to transfer the whole case? Just how overprotective _is_ this relative of his? Unless…

For a moment, Sally entertains a horrible suspicion… but no, it isn’t possible for Holmes to have killed him. They’d arrived almost directly after the shot and Holmes had been in the room with Hope at the time. He wouldn’t have been able to travel over from the building over so quickly.

“He’s definitely our poisoner,” Phillip says, walking up to the crime scene tape. “Pockets are full of capsules, look.” He holds up at evidence bag, giving it a little shake.

“Great,” says Sally. “Bag it all up, make sure you label it clearly. The case has been transferred.”  
“What?” says Phillip.  
“MI6,” Sally says, glancing meaningfully at Anthea who seems suddenly completely immersed in her blackberry. 

“Oh. Oh hi,” Phillip says, voice deepening a little, back straightening, clearly in reaction to the unexpected presence of a very attractive woman. He holds out his hand. “Phillip Anderson.”

“Mmmm, I know.” Anthea doesn’t look up from her phone, and Phillip drops the hand, flushing. 

“If you could finish the crime scene as quickly as possible we’d be very grateful,” Anthea says, and Sally could swear her voice has taken on an even more upper class register then before. 

Phillip turns to Sally, eyebrows raised, with a look Sally somehow feels disloyal about returning. 

“Right,” Phillip says drily and returns to the crime scene.

“You’re involved with him,” Anthea comments, phone back in her bag now.

“He’s a friend,” Sally says. Anthea continues to stare at her and Sally is uncomfortably reminded of Holmes. She shifts a little on her feet, pulling down her skirt and trying to block Anthea’s view of her knees. “It isn’t serious,” she says.

Anthea watches her for a second longer, then starts to root around in her bag. She pulls out a manila folder.

“You’ll need to file these,” she says. Sally takes the folder, opening it to take a look. 

“Captain Watson’s security clearance and various credentials. You’ll need them logged if he’s to consult on cases with Sherlock Holmes in the future.”

Sally raises her eyebrows. “You really think that’s going to last?”

Anthea shoots Sally a brief, unreadable glance, then says, “In any case it is best to have your paperwork in order, isn’t it?”

Sally flicks through the documents – forms all filled in with beautifully clear handwriting and photocopied in triplicate. She has to admit it will save her a bit of time and energy when she has to write the case up.

“Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”

Anthea nods. “Always a pleasure working with you, Sergeant.” She turns, but then pauses looking back. “The shoes do suit you,” she adds, and flicking her hair over her shoulder she walks away.

 

***

“There’s no way he got those all those injuries falling out of a second floor window,” Sally remarks to her boss, as they stand side by side watching the paramedics strapping the man onto a stretcher.

“Mmmm,” Lestrade says, noncommittally. His shoulders are hunched, hands sunk deep in his pockets – the picture of denial.

Sally glares at him.

“I’ll have a word with him,” Lestrade says.

“Fat lot of good that’s ever done,” Sally mutters under her breath. She watches, irritated, as her boss approaches Holmes, who is watching the scene with a decidedly inscrutable expression on his face. She has no idea why her boss lets him get away with it. Well, she thinks watching the pair together, Lestrade’s eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, she actually does have a couple of ideas but certainly none that bear thinking about.

Instead Sally decides to have a word with the neighbours. It’s good practice to gather witness statements, and if any of them happen to have observed Holmes using more than reasonable force, well. It would be negligence not to record it, wouldn’t it?

Unfortunately, none of the people Sally interviews will admit to having seen or heard a thing. By the seventh house call Sally is wondering if being blind and deaf is a prerequisite for living near Sherlock Holmes. She sighs and puts her notebook away. This is a waste of her time. 

As if on cue the sky above her rumbles and a heavy rain begin to fall around her, splashing up from the streets. 

“Sergeant Donovan?” 

Sally turns. It has been months since she last saw Anthea but somehow Sally is utterly unsurprised to see the woman walking toward her, an umbrella held over her head.  
Anthea smiles at her. “I thought it was you. Allow me to walk you to your car?”

The umbrella is raised a little and Sally slips underneath it, shaking water droplets from her hair.

“If you don’t mind,” Anthea says. “I think you are a little taller than me. Perhaps it would be best if you held the umbrella.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” Sally takes it from Anthea’s hands.

“Bad business, this break-in,” Anthea comments, as they begin to walk.

“Break-in,” says Sally. “And assault.”

“Ah yes, I understand the landlady was injured.”

“So was the intruder,” Sally says.

Anthea turns to look up at Sally. 

“You’re planning to report it.”

“Of course I am,” Sally snaps. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me not to.”

“I think it’s likely to be a waste of your time,” Anthea says. They have reached Sally’s car, and both pause outside it.

All Sally’s irritation seems to flare up at once. “Look,” she says. “I don’t know how they do things in MI6 but in our division we don’t cover it up when someone goes psycho and beats a suspect.”

Anthea doesn’t reply, just continues to look at Sally with an almost sorrowful expression. Jerkily Sally takes down the umbrella and yanks open the car door, suddenly unable to stand looking at the woman anymore.

It isn’t until she’s driven halfway down the street that Sally realises she still has Anthea’s umbrella beside her, dripping onto the passenger seat. She looks in her rear view mirror wondering if she should go back, but the street behind her is empty.

Anthea turns out to be right, of course. The report Sally files mysteriously disappears from the system, and neither the intruder nor the residents of Baker Street press charges.  
It’s another six months before Sally finds the evidence that will get her concerns about Sherlock Holmes taken seriously. It isn’t long before she wishes she hadn’t.

***

Sally bends over the file, her eyes aching with tiredness. The cramped lines of print are starting to blur in front of her. Opposite, Phillip is slumped over his own file, head cupped in his hand. He doesn’t look like he’s shaved in days and his hair is lank and greasy looking. Sally isn’t doing much better, she knows. Her clothes are crumpled, and her skin feels oily, chin prickling with the warning signs of a break out.

Every file they go through tells the same story – and it isn’t a story either of them wants to hear. The cases are absolutely watertight. There isn’t any way Sherlock Holmes could have faked anything they’ve looked at so far, not unless he was a magician as well as a prime arse. Possibly he hadn’t faked anything at all. 

Sally’s chest feels suddenly tight. She gets to her feet.

“I’m going to get some air.”

Phillip looks blearily up at her. Sally feels a pang of pity for the man. It’s been months since they stopped sleeping together – not something they’d discussed, just a mutual loss of enthusiasm for the idea. But he is still her friend. It hurts her that she can’t help him cope with this, anymore than she can help herself.

“I’ll bring you back a coffee,” she says, laying a hand briefly on his shoulder as she passes.

Outside, the air feels close and damp, promising rain. The few trees in the forecourt of Scotland Yard are turning a sickly yellow, the first leaves to fall already clogging up the ground in piles. Sally finds a stone bench and closes her eyes for a moment, trying not to picture a man in a black coat falling through an empty sky.

After a moment she hears the click of high heels, quiet but distinct behind her, and smells a familiar perfume on the air. When she opens her eyes she isn’t at all surprised to see Anthea on the bench beside her, two plastic cups covered with lids on the bench between them.

“I still have your umbrella,” Sally says, by way of greeting.

“Oh, you can keep it,” Anthea says. “I get them free at work.”

Anthea pushes one of the cups towards Sally.

“I thought you might like some tea.” 

“You need to stop giving me things!” Sally snaps, surprising herself and, apparently, Anthea, who stares at her. 

“But you know, uh, thanks,” Sally finishes lamely, and picks the drink up, pulling the lid off. A fine flood of steam rises up from it, filling her nostrils, causing moisture to bead on her face. It’s somehow calming. Anthea takes her phone out, beings clicking away at it. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Sally watching the wind shift the tree branches, and out of the corner of her eye, Anthea endlessly texting. 

When she finally takes a sip of tea, Sally realises it is sweet. Since Anthea has always appeared to have a preternatural knowledge of Sally’s taste in everything, Sally can only assume it’s supposed to be medicinal.

_I’m not in shock_. But of course, she is. They all are. However much Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been liked, however many times Sally had insisted he wasn’t one of them – well. He had been. And now he’s dead.

“I suppose this means your job is over, doesn’t it?” Sally says. “No need to come back here now Holmes is gone.”

Anthea puts the phone in her lap, and looks out over the courtyard. For a moment her eyes look a little misty. It occurs to Sally that she doesn’t know what the exact relationship between the two of them was – Anthea had so often appeared in Holmes’ wake, but did she know him? Were they – friends? 

“He wasn’t my only assignment,” Anthea says, at last. “But he was a unique challenge.”

From anyone else that would have sounded like a backhanded insult but somehow Sally was sure Anthea intended it as a tribute.

“He was a complete tosser,” Sally says, and, actually, it’s also a sort of tribute. 

Anthea turns to look at her, expression grave. “How are the investigations going?” she asks. 

Sally’s eyes widen a little. “How did you know …”

“There are records kept of which files are pulled and by which officers. You and Mr Anderson are choosing to spend your period of compassionate leave in a rather unorthodox manner.”

Sally is silent for a moment, struggling to find the words to respond to this.

“I told people he was a fraud,” Sally says, at last. “I need to know if I was right or not.”

“You were,” Anthea says, simply.

Sally’s mouth falls open. “You mean – ”

“I don’t mean he _was_ a fraud. But your suspicions were grounded in the evidence available at the time and you followed the correct protocol in reporting them to a and you followed the correct protocol in reporting them to a senior officer for further investigation. It was good police work.” Anthea’s tone is neutral, entirely matter-of-fact. Any trace of sorrow or wistfulness in her manner seems to have completely evaporated. 

Sally stares at her. “If I was wrong,” she says, “then I helped to drive an innocent man to suicide.”

“The definition of suicide,” says Anthea, “is that the victim takes their own life.”

“I hated him,” says Sally. “I was so pleased to finally have something on him, to be right. What if that clouded my judgement? If he was innocent – ”

“Innocent or guilty, Sherlock Holmes is still dead,” Anthea says, calmly. “Revisiting his past actions is of no benefit to anyone. Your efforts would be more efficiently spent protecting the living.”

Sally’s fingers tighten around the styrofoam cup. “Jesus,” she says. “How can you talk about it like that? He _died_. He _killed himself_. Any human being would want to know why.”

Anthea looks at her expressionlessly.

“God,” says Sally. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’re as bad as he was. You’re – ”

“A freak?” says Anthea. For the first time, Sally thinks she sees a flash of real anger in the woman’s eyes. Sally opens her mouth to reply but Anthea is already on her feet. “The other drink is for your colleague,” she says. 

And before Sally can say anything, Anthea is walking away, footsteps ringing across the courtyard.

When Sally gets back to the office she finds Phillip slumped over the desk fast asleep, a thin strand of drool pooling on the document he’d been reading. Sally places the tea a safe distance from his outstretched arms and stands staring down at the sea of files.

Anthea is right. This isn’t helping anyone. 

***

As soon as Sally’s leave ends she throws herself back into her work. Lestrade returns a couple of days later, looking about ten years older than when Sally saw him last. Sally spends the morning debriefing him on all their current cases, and then they get cracking on the highest priorities. Neither of them mention Holmes.

As the weeks pass Sally finds herself looking over her shoulder at odd moments, listening for the echo of high heels approaching down the corridor, the quiet clicking of keys on a blackberry. It never comes. As Sally had pointed out, Anthea has no reason to be here now. But Sally can’t help feeling a nagging sense of guilt about the way their last meeting had ended – the woman had been nothing but considerate and helpful, albeit in a highhanded manner, since they met. Sally doesn’t like to think their acquaintance should end the way it had.

It doesn’t seem like there’s much she can do about it, though. She’d never had any of Anthea’s contact details, the woman had always just – appeared. When she decides on an impulse to call the office in MI6 that Anthea’s ID had been issued from, they tell her no person by that name has ever worked for them.

In the end she decides to drop round to Alessandro’s.

“Miss Sally!” Alessandro seems immensely pleased to see her. “A new set of the D’Orsays, is it? Or, I have a lovely pair of Mary Janes in navy blue to show you.”

“Actually, I was hoping I could leave something with you,” she says. “To pass on to one of your customers – Anthea Woodhouse, you remember.”

“Ah, but of course. Always happy to play the part of Hermes.”

Sally hands him an envelope. It has a voucher for the cupcake shop inside, with a brief note of apology attached. Alessandro takes it and tucks it into his apron pocket. “Now please, allow me to show you the latest imports, sent to me by my brother from Milano… you’ll find they are quite a new style…”

Sally leaves the shop with a pair of shoes she probably oughtn’t be able to afford, and a lighter conscience.

***

For the first time in months, Sally is leaving the office before five. They’ve just broken a case, a set of drugs smugglers operating out of Tilsbury Town. The arrest warrants are being drawn up, but right now there’s nothing for them to be doing. Sally is blissfully free.

Just as she gets out of the front doors of Scotland Yard, she hears the sound of a throat being cleared. She turns to see Anthea, a hand raised slightly in greeting. Sally blinks. For once Anthea isn’t wearing her usual business attire – she’s in jeans, and trainers, hair pulled back in a pony tail. It’s a little unnerving to see her looking so – well. Normal. Unintimidating.

“Hi,” she says.

“I thought you’d be finishing about now,” Anthea says. “Thank you for the vouchers.”

“Oh,” says Sally. “Forget it. It was nothing.”

“I was just intending to go and spend them,” Anthea says. “Perhaps you’d join me?” There’s something a little bit odd about the way she says this, head tilted to one side, hands clenched, and words very carefully pronounced. It reminds Sally of a child, having been lectured by their parents on the polite way to ask a friend to tea, and who is worried about getting it wrong.

“Uh - sure,” Sally says. “Could do with a coffee actually.”

Anthea beams, and they take off, heading round the corner to the cupcake shop. Anthea orders only for herself this time, and turns to Sally to give her the chance to say what she would like. Sally gets the red velvet cake anyway.

“I tried calling your office,” Sally remarks, as they take a seat. 

“Oh?” 

“They said they’d never heard of you.”

“Hmm. Next time ask for Diana Dashwood.” 

Sally blinks. “Is that your real name?”

Anthea’s nose wrinkles as if this is an absurd idea. “Of course not. That’s my departmental name.” 

Sally stares at her. “So… Anthea’s your real name then?”

“No.”

“So...your real name is?”

Anthea sighs. “Is it important?”

“Kind of. Nice to know who I’m buying coffee for.”

Anthea’s mouth twists a little, as if she’s tasted something bitter. “My given name is - Violet Hunter.”

“Violet,” Sally says. It was an old fashioned name, definitely, but she wasn’t sure it quite warranted the martyred expression on the woman’s face. “That’s pretty. You don’t like it?”

“The children at school used to call me Parma,” says Anthea, in a dark tone. “You know, like the sweets.”

“Awful,” says Sally, trying not to smile.

“Still,” Anthea brightens a little. “Disposable identities are useful in my line of work.”

Sally is wondering if she ought to ask what that means, when the waitress arrives at the table with their coffee and cake. By the time the waitress moves off again, Sally has come to the conclusion it probably would result in some sort of ‘if I told you I’d probably have to kill you’ type situation, and that wasn’t good for anyone’s health. 

“I decided to give up,” Sally says, to change the subject. “Trying to find out about the Sherlock Holmes. You were right, it wasn’t doing anyone any good. I needed to get back to my real job.”

Anthea is quiet for a short moment of time, staring out of the window ahead of her. 

“He had a commitment to protecting London from crime,” she says, after a moment. “I think he’d appreciate you working towards the same end. In his absence.” Anthea’s expression is remote, as she says this, still looking out of the window rather than at Sally, one finger absently tracing over the rim of her cup.

_Violet_ , Sally thinks. Posh accent, old fashioned name and a peculiar ability to guess things about a person that they had no business knowing. Definitely reminiscent of someone. Sally wonders if perhaps Anthea had more reasons for looking out for Holmes, and for that little burst of anger outside Scotland Yard, than Sally had realised.

“You know - our solve rates have gone down five per cent already. The Chief Superintendent came down to threaten a review into why we were underperforming, which given he’s the one who kicked up such a fuss about using Holmes was a bit rich. I thought my boss was about to punch him.” Sally hesitates for a moment before saying. “We miss him, you know. We didn’t all like him, but -well. We think about him.”

Anthea’s eyes turn slowly from the window to Sally’s face. “Thank you,” she says. “That is – appreciated.”

Sally smiles, and takes a sip of her coffee. They sit in silence for a while, watching the people pass by. It’s the hour when people start leaving work, hurrying to catch the tube and get home before the rush, heads down, briefcases swinging.

“It’s nice,” Sally says. “To be able to sit, have a coffee like this. Usually I’m rushed off my feet all week long. No time to stop and watch the world go by for a bit. I expect you know all about that, working where you do.”

“Actually,” Anthea says. “I have quite a lot of free time.”

Sally glances at her. There’s something a little nervous, a little expectant in the way Anthea looks at her, hands fidgeting with her cup. Sally thinks about the woman who was always so cool and assured, but seemed hurt when Sally snapped at her, and who had gone out of her way to invite her to coffee. She feels just a little bit flattered.

“Well,” she says. “I have my day off on Sunday. I thought I might hit the shops – want to join me?”

Anthea smiles. “I’d like that,” she says. “Oh! And there’s a production of _Idomeneo_ at the Royal Opera House that evening, perhaps we could go to see it!”

“Erm,” says Sally, who can‘t think of a worse way to spend her free time than listening to actors bellow at each other in Italian for four hours. “Maybe I’ll just stick to the shopping, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Anthea says peaceably. “I do know a few little places who sell designer clothes at discounted prices. Well, they’ll be discounted if you’re with me.”

Sally smiles. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” she says wryly and raises her coffee cup in a salute. 

“Yes,” Anthea says, clinking her coffee cup against Sally’s. “It does.”


End file.
